The Envelope
by Rach3
Summary: Abby debates whether or not to open Will's envelope. And a wee bit of smut thrown in for kicks.


Title: The Envelope  
By: Rach (aliasrlm@yahoo.com)  
Distribution: Yes, go ahead.  
Disclaimer: Do I really need to do this? My property the characters of Alias are not.  
Summary: Abby debates whether or not to open Will's envelope. And a wee bit of smut is thrown in just for kicks.  
Rating: a solid R  
Spoilers: "The Solution"  
Author's Note: Thanks to Kat and Robin, your suggestions have been ever so helpful. And to Ted Casablanca, my fave gossip columnist, for -- well, if you read his column, you'll know why once you finish this story. Just a wee bit of inspiration. And Hil, here's the challenge piece I promised!

****  
The Envelope  
by Rach   
****

My fingers toy with the sealed flap of the manila envelope, working away on the left corner. 

It reminds me of the devastating letter written by Philip, my tall, gangly teenage sweetheart. "Here," the only word he spoke as he shoved the letter at me. It brings back the anxiety and rush of anticipation I felt as I held the stark white envelope in my shaky hands, part of me wanting to tear it open, the other part wanting to throw it in my schoolbag and pretend only good news existed inside. I ended up toying with the flap, still moist from Philip's saliva. Then when I couldn't take the suspense any longer, I ripped open the envelope to discover Philip had "fallen in love" with Fiona, a rail-thin blonde - you know the type - all teeth and giggles and perfectly rounded breasts. No real substance. 

Anyhow, I'm still staring at Will's envelope - I push the corner away from me slowly. I exhale. I pause, my index finger hovering. Holding my breath. Then I pinch the end with my nails, dotted with chipped pink polish, pulling it toward me, watching the crease become more defined, similar to the one down the center of my editor's forehead. I inhale sharply and my mind focuses, pushing out all other thoughts and sounds -- even the _taptaptap_ of pouring rain and occasional claps of thunder outside.

The corner, once steadfast and strong, is now weakening under the undeniable skill of my fingers (what do you expect from a girl who spends most of her day typing?). The pesky corner is putting up a valiant fight, I must say, but it's no match for me. It makes me wonder if Will has super saliva, as thick and strong as rubber cement. Either that or the envelope glue was of industrial strength.

All I know is that I want to rip this bloody envelope open, exposing Will's ultra-secretive-hush-hush-only-read-if-he's-dead story. Seriously, if the story were that good, that important, we'd be running it on the front page, above the fold. Alright, Will is a good writer, talented if not too cocky, but what really warrants this sealed envelope rubbish? And why would he give it to me, knowing full well what I do for a living?

Yes, I know, I'm off the investigative beat and currently running the features section. Five years of fighting the good fight, asking the difficult questions, putting together a killer story -- do you have any idea what that does to you? I'll tell you. It turns you hard, bitter, abrasive, tired. Withered but edgy, like a scarp of worn sandpaper. It makes you wonder who you can really trust -- and I, for one, was sick of questioning my best friends, my family, even my mum for Christ's sake. (I knew I had hit rock bottom once I starting grilling Mum over her ironing technique. "Why are you putting creases down the center of your trousers? Who taught you that? Do you actually think that's in fashion now? Hmmm, do you? _Do_ you?")

I had turned into an abhorrent person that no one save my editor liked, who really didn't care for me as much as she cared for my hard-hitting stories. Even she, an obvious loner, declined my offer for a night on the town with my friends and I. (Well, it was just me, since my friends had long tired of me and no one else at work was interested. I ended up renting 'Ever After' and eating a king-sized bag of M&Ms. And three-quarters of a bag of microwaved popcorn. And a few spoonfuls of Cherry Garcia that was waiting in the freezer for just an occasion.)

Writing about pretentious actresses (always with some sort of eating disorder, addiction problem or criminal tendency) may not seem like the perfect job, but it definitely beats chasing down the mayor's spokesperson for a sterile non-comment comment on a story that 90 percent of the readers would have forgotten by the next day. Sewage commissioner is siphoning money from the city - big deal (_read: sarcasm_). An A-list actress buys a $6 million house with boyfriend of three months - big deal (_read: people in LA actually care about this crap_). My stories, as fluffy as they are, are that day's guaranteed water cooler conversation. So honestly, when I think about it, my articles are probably the best remembered, most read pieces in the whole paper. Does this make me proud? Not necessarily. But am I the one stuffing two-inch-thick articles in manila envelopes and hiding them away just in case I get gunned down by a source? Most definitely not.

Which brings me back to this envelope with Will's block-like scrawl (much like an engineer, just like my dad's writing) across the front. The left corner is just begging to be toyed with a little more. Just. A. Little. More. The edge of the flap is just starting to separate from back of the envelope, as evidenced by the gooey strings of adhesive I can see bridging the tiny (but growing) space between the two. I pull a little harder, but not with enough force to rip the envelope -- I don't want to do that. I just want to see a little bit of the story, just the headline, the slug, the lede, just enough to know that Will is totally serious about this. Just so I don't think this is some grand, elaborate practical joke. 

They like to do that to me here at the paper. It's annoying and humiliating and now I'm always on my guard, always waiting for the next one. The last time was three months ago -- the brains behind that one, sadly, was Jenny. That, of course, made it all the more humiliating when I reacted the way I did, letting out a high-pitched shriek, my hands flailing heavenward first, then in every other direction, knocking over my only-five-minutes-old tall non-fat Starbucks latte. And there Jenny stood, manicured hand on slim hip, a full-lipped titled smirk on her perfect acne-free face. I didn't think Will had anything to do with that one, but it's always possible he sent her to do his dirty work. 

No, no, the "dirty work" was done later that night, when those two thought no one else was around. I learned this when I drove to the office in the middle of the night after realizing I had forgotten the address of my morning interview, a trendy Beverly Hills café where I'd meet TV's newest "It Girl," a glowing blonde thing, no wider than a fishstick (with just as much going on in her mind). It was dark by then, the lights turned down except for those by the assignment desk and above Will's work area. A wash of sickly purplish-green fluorescent light covered the newspaper clips and faxed documents scattered on his desk.

My smile disappeared as I realized he was nowhere to be seen. Why had I been smiling? OK, I'll admit it, I was looking forward to being able to talk to him without the usual hurried office crowd around. Because, yes, I do find him attractive (even more so since he lost that fake blonde dye job) and would like to get to know him better -- but at that time, everyone knew he and his assistant were fucking. It was so completely overt that I wondered if they even cared that we all knew. 

His screen saver, a flashing, generic thing consisting of swirls and 3-D cubes, was running diligently and a half-eaten club sandwich (it had to be takeout from Linda's, the 24-hour diner next door - their club is pretty decent, but not enough bacon for my taste) had been abandoned on his desk, still nestled in its Styrofoam container, parts of which were eaten away by the grease of the accompanying chips (they smelled delicious and I was debating whether or not the snag a few - he'd never know). As my eyes took in the messy piles of printouts stacked under his desk, I wondered (not for the first time) how he keeps his shit organized long enough to put together a decent story. 

I snagged the yellow Post-It off my desk with the fish-stick-interview address and was just about to leave when I heard a voice. Now, I've got good hearing (I think it somehow makes up for my poor eyesight - one eye is nearsighted, the other farsightedboth graced with astigmatism, so I have those tilted contact lenses that really aren't that difficult to get used to, really, but are still outrageously expensive), so I can pick up the smallest of sounds, but I don't really think this was one of those cases.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that the voice was, well, moaning. Not a long, drawn out moan that you hear those silicone-implanted fake-blondes (you know, the ones with the Brazilian wax jobs) porn stars use in their movies (hey, a girl can only watch 'Ever After' so many times), but a completely different type of moan. A giggly, suggestive, almost meow-ish sound. One I've never heard before (and had definitely never made before).

I remember my hand flying to cover my gasp of surprisenow this was some office gossip that I couldn't miss. This was my kind of assignment - gossip crossed with a wee bit of investigative reporting. Much more interesting than the oh-so-mundane figures involved in this year's city budget. Definitely more interesting than my fishstick interview the next morningbecause chances were I actually knew the man who was responsible for that intriguing and (and yes, I'll admit it) downright sensual sound.

It had to be Will. The only other people there that late were Milton, a fossil of a man who was responsible for nightside monitoring of police scanners (and the assignment desk, but we all know that after forty years with the paper, all he really cares about is getting off on some sick voyeuristic trip with that damn scanner) and the two-person janitorial staff (who could care less about a couple fucking in the copy room as long as they weren't expected to clean up afterward).

It had to be Will. 

I slowly started to move down the hallway, toward the noise, my trainers surprisingly quiet on the floor. I realized it wasn't coming from the copy room (thank God, that would've been just so clichéd, I think I'd lose all respect for cute, scruffy Will), but rather a few doors awayin the women's bathroom.

A giggle echoing off bathroom tile. I stopped, my heart hammering in my throat. Holy shit. A throaty gasp. Still the girl. The sound of a shoe hitting the floor. Could she be in there -- (gulp) -- all by herself? Now that would be some gossip. 

I couldn't bring myself to move. Instead, I just stood there, my Post-It note crinkled in my fist, my mouth agape, waiting for the next clue.

I didn't have to wait long. "Mmmm, yes, oh godddd," the voice grew slightly louder. I could hear movement, something (or someone) rocking against the metal stall. It sounded like one of the bathroom doors swinging shutbut overand overand overand fasterand fasterand faster. 

And then:

"Will"

That bastard! I just knew it was him. And his voice was next, but it was too quiet, too deep to understand. I thought I heard him say something about taking dirty, but not Will, he seemed so normal, so gentle, so -

"How would you - ohhhhhhhhh - like to be my assistant tonight, Will?"

Whoa. No way I just heard her say that. Then the moan again - that girl seriously needed to trademark that sound, it was hers and hers alone (well, who knows if she makes that sound when she's alone, but that's an entirely different subject). What the hell was doing to her in there?

My mind was alive with mental images of Jenny, her size two skirt hiked up, Will with his trousers down (I liked that part the best, I must confess), and a veritable buffet of naughtiness (her French-manicured nails digging into the taut muscles of his back, his teeth on her nipples, her hands stroking --)

Interrupted by yet another moan. I threw a glance over my shoulder, seeing Milton (bowtie undone, head slumped, resting against his chest - what the fuck, was he actually sleeping?) at the assignment desk at the far end of the newsroom. Being such a voyeur, I couldn't believe he'd want to miss this. 

The girl (it had to have been Jennyunless Will had developed some sort of sick attachment to Florine, the 60-year-old blue-haired cleaning woman) let out a throaty laugh, then said, "You're the worst assistant ever, Will Tippin." A giggle punctuated by a gasp. "This coffee tastes horrible. I thought you knew the way I liked it. Now go get me a new cup and make it quick."

I don't know how she managed to get out those last three sentences without some sort of sex noise, but she didand I couldn't help but have a little respect for that, for this girl who did (and probably had done) a whole slew of sexy, kinky things that I hadn't even imagined. I felt like I was seven years old again, envying the girls next door who had all the newest Barbie dolls while I had only one (a ratty thing with a fat neck - my brother had pulled off her head in a fit of anger one night. I managed to secure it back in its rightful place, but I had to squish the head far down onto the doll's neck in order to get it to stay on properly. I cried and Robert said, "Ha! Look at her big fat head. Now she looks more like you!").

For the next few minutes, I stood there, paralyzed by the sounds bouncing out from the bathroom. I could finally hear Will, his breath ragged, his grunts surprisingly animalistic, his actions (or so I gathered from Jenny's wild response) more than satisfying.

And suddenly, it was all overwith a growl from Will, a (yes, of course) moan from Jenny and a shake of the head for me. I forced myself to move, to walk at my clipped pace far away from the bathroom, past Milton (who was snoring) and out the front door.

I turned a corner and collapsed against the building's brick wall. My breathing was elevated, labored. My hair was stuck to the sides of my face with sweat. I was, and I'm ashamed to admit it, completely aroused. My hand flew to my chest to slow my heartbeat and I exhaled long and deep. My God.

(I ended up being twenty-five minutes late for my morning interview with fishstick. It just so happens that my sweaty palms had managed to smear the ink on the Post-It and I went to the wrong café. Fishstick was rude. I, however, couldn't have cared less. I still had other things on my mind.)

Now, as I look back, I'm glad I kept the Will/Jenny bathroom sex secret to myself. After all, if all the other girls in the office know of Will's -erm- talents, he wouldn't be single for long. And it's still hard to look him in the eye without feeling a blush sting my cheeks. And I still find myself gazing at him as he chats on that sexy little headset, chewing on a pen, leaning back in his chair and laughing. So I have a bit of a crush - can you blame me?

I am suddenly aware that it's still raining. And this mysterious envelope is still in my sweaty hands. 

I give the corner a half-hearted tug, perspiration from my fingertips turning the envelope a darker orange in two oval smears.

It gives, exposing the top left section of the article. I see the slug: "SD-6." What else can I see? Just the lede. My pulse quickens as my eyes scan the first sentence, taking in the nine words. 

Then again.

And again.

_"Can a journalist win a Pulitzer from the grave?"_

(Kurt Oldham, one of our reporters, won a Pulitzer in 1997 for uncovering who was behind an extensive oil spill in San Diego - a story of cover-ups and backpedaling and finally, admittance. Before the award ceremony began, the Pulitzer people informed him of the "proper way" to pronounce Pulitzer. "It's like you're talking about pulling someone's nose - pull-it-sir.")

My eyes burn as I read the lede again. Each word is like a punch to the stomach, leaving me dry-mouthed and gasping for air. And wishing that I had remained completely ignorant, not having let curiosity get the best of me. 

_"Can a journalist win a Pulitzer from the grave?"_

It's a damn good hook. Cocky, but too good to be wasted on a practical joke. Not meant for my eyes. Like a seat cushion-slash-flotation device in an airplane -- meant for an extreme emergency only. Meant to be revealed in only the most dire of circumstances. Meant to be hidden away in my desk and not thought of again.

I pull the corner up over the article, covering the pristine white paperfeeling dirty, guilty.and overwhelmingly frightened. 

This is for real.

I pull out a roll of tape and seal the flap shut for good with three long strips, overlapping each other -- to serve as a reminder lest I become curious again.

I slide the manila envelope into my bottom drawer, the one with the lock that I never use. Closing it with a click and a turn of the key, I swivel in my chair to face the window.

I watch the rain splash against the window panes.  



End file.
